Like most of you, I went to visit my mother on Mother’s Day. Well, I suppose you actually visited your own mothers, but if you visited mine, I’m sure she appreciated it.
My mother lives in Gatlinburg at the top of a long and steep paved driveway. Located next to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, just about everything in the mountain resort is built on an incline. If you ever fall down, you practically roll to the center of the town. I grew up on Baskins Creek, a name that evolved from the "bearskins" that were once dried along its streambanks.
A few years ago, we had just begun to settle down for a Mother's Day lunch when mom walked out on the deck.
“Come quick,” she shouted. “Bear. Bear.” And indeed, outside a Smoky Mountain black bear was galloping up the driveway. Was it on its way to visit my mother too?
When I arrived at the sliding glass door, the running Ursus americanus took notice and altered its course to enter the woods opposite the house; climbing the hillside quickly, it soon disappeared. It was a young bear, not a cub and certainly not full-grown, perhaps a yearling; lanky and long-legged without the waddlesome paunch you’d expect on a bear.
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